


Deep in Enemy Territory

by TheAutumnLeaves



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Rape Recovery, hurt comfort
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-12
Updated: 2019-01-16
Packaged: 2019-03-30 15:17:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con, Underage
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13954359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAutumnLeaves/pseuds/TheAutumnLeaves
Summary: Following his defeat of Sheev Palpatine, Darth Vader is overseeing the dismantling of his palace in the old Jedi Temple when one of the workers brings him unexpected news: there's a child in the wreckage.





	1. Discovery

"What?" Vader demanded, turning sharply to the man who had addressed him.  
He was overseeing the continued dismantlement of his master's old palace, the sprawling Jedi Temple, and the series of rooms he'd used. A part of him itched to search the old building, to push beyond the Emperor's tiny pocket of Imperial order, and into the dusty, cavernous rooms he had once called home. But he remained, patient and silent, save for an occasional order issued, and watched as others destroyed it.  
Once Palpatine's belongings were gone, the last memory of the old Republic would have vanished, their bastardized government fully gutted and replaced with a simple military dictatorship, with no bureaucracy to interfere with swift justice. There would be no corrupt senators, and no ulterior motives, and if he sensed anyone trying to bring that inequity back, they would be dealt with.  
It was taking kriffing days to safely dig through the traps and file away all of Palpatine's meticulously kept hard copied files, but the documentation would be important. As much as Vader loathed the wait, it would have been unwise to rush ahead.  
And now, Vader's mind swung back to the man at his elbow. The construction crew was a motely group, officers, experts, and contractors digging away together, and this man was a lowly civilian.  
"We found something. Deep inside." The man seemed to be realizing anew exactly who he was addressing, physically leaning back from Vader, and becoming twitchier than Vader was interested in dealing with.  
"Why did you bring it to me?" Vader rumbled, hoping the question would scare the skittish man off.  
"B-because it was in the old Temple," the man said, stumbling on his words, and accidentally letting in a reverence the Temple was not meant to be given anymore. "Because he was."  
"He?" Vader asked, shaking the last of his disinterested gaze to the man. Had Palpatine escaped death? But, no, that was impossible. Then the contractor would have merely disappeared, never to be heard from again. An underling? An Inquisitor?  
The results would have been much the same.  
"You'd better see," the man said, before hurriedly turning his back on the entrance, and the light spilling in. He scrambled back in the direction he had come, his pace and gait impaired by their successful demolition, and their failed attempts to defuse bombs.  
Intrigued, and sensing now that there was no danger, Vader followed him.  
Palpatine had not built his own quarters very far into the Temple, choosing to keep the site to himself, and only a single, huge hall had ever opened to the public. The rest had been left in rack and ruin, but as Vader followed the contractor on, he couldn't help but notice that this corridor lacked the dust and dark of the others. It had been used, and recently.  
Ahead, the man broke free of the last of the debris, and he ran down the halls, seeming to be attempting to accommodate for Vader's long strides, and acting in an impatience Vader could only appreciate. The contractor was running, not from Vader, but towards whatever he had found.  
As the man dashed ahead, down the same predictable, easily followed path, marked by doors that opened easily, and lined by the empty quarters, which had once babbled with life, a feeling of unease swept over Vader.  
Again, he reached to the Force, reassuring himself of the contractor's intentions. Again, there was no malice.  
Beginning to feel constricted, Vader expanded his senses, tendrils of the Force creeping into the dead hallways that had once flowed with it.  
It was a cold place, filled with patches of dark, where lives had been snuffed, and bodies left to rot. But in his mind's eye, it was familiar, the emptiness overlaid with bustle and life. Years ago, he had seen these halls put to their intended purpose, filled with children and their guardians, a hub of all that had been good about the Order.  
He walked, the two versions colliding and swimming and blending harmlessly. The halls were empty now, with no threat that he would bump into anything before he reached his quarters-  
His quarters.  
He realized now why this walk seemed familiar. The sense of déjà vu aching in his heart, and why he could see the Jedi here so clearly.  
It was the walk to the room where he had grown up. One he had taken so many times he could navigate it with his eyes shut. He had been confused by Palpatine's renovations, and the chaos he had personally wreaked. It had garbled the memories, hiding that time behind a more recent reality.  
The past had faded from Vader's vision, and he found himself standing still, gazing down the hall. It still seemed impossible that his master had inhabited this space. Somehow, in Vader's mind, it had never changed. No matter how often he was summoned to his master's side, for one reason or another, he had never rectified the sensation of approaching the ruined temple with the experience of stepping inside.  
The man was becoming distant down the hall, and Vader broke into a run suddenly. They had found something down this hall, and he realized now that it must have had to do with him.  
Or - with Anakin.  
The contractor would not know the connection, but surely the only thing Palpatine could have wanted in these halls was the room his apprentice had called home for so long.  
The contractor had called his find 'he'. Was it a body? Had Palpatine found remains to mask as Anakin Skywalker's?  
With his status in the Clone Wars, it had become popular to claim that Anakin was not dead, that he was merely out there, waiting for a chance to strike against Palpatine. Perhaps Palpatine had planned to end it, once and for all.  
But if that was the case, why plant the body somewhere it could never be found?  
As he neared the old quarters, he suddenly felt the past licking at his heels, threatening to pull him back, and remind him of the time he had destroyed. He pulled the Force around himself, sheltering from the memories, but they chomped at his back, always ready to take him if he dared to slow down. In a murmur of a voice. The sound of a lightsaber, a friendly spar. Padmé's gentle hand at his shoulder.  
Now, he wanted to see what they had found, and leave as quickly as possible.  
Even the memories tied to Palpatine's space were less painful than this.  
He skidded to a halt outside his familiar door, and his stomach turned over as he gazed at the door again.  
It must have been a decade since he had last stood before it.  
The memories had nearly caught up to him, and he lunged forwards, hitting the opening panel in an effort to escape them.  
What lay inside was worse.  
He had known he wasn't ready to see his old home twisted to whatever Palpatine had used it for, but he had expected piles of paperwork, or relics of his past, stored to taunt him with in the future.  
And there were the artifacts. Things that had been his, or Padmé's, or his mother's, lined up on his desk and shelves, the utilitarian items that had once occupied them now gone. His old clothes, undoubtedly once left a mess on the floor, had vanished. His tools, which would have been scattered across the desk.  
It would have been strange and unnatural enough in its cleanliness.  
But in the middle of the pristine room lay a body.  
Not a body that was meant to be Anakin. At least, not a recent one. Not on the floor, sprawled in some exaggerated death. Not dead at all, in fact.  
On the bed where Anakin had once slept, a boy lay. Chained at the wrists, he lay in a puddle of filth, and Vader's gaze jerked instinctively to the contractor who had found him, who stood beside the bed, looking awkward now that he had presented his find.  
He barely fixed his gaze on the man before he was drawn back to the boy.  
Nearly dead, the child lay, too small for the bed he'd been forgotten on. He was gaunt, sick looking, and seemed unaware of the two men in the room.  
For a long, painful moment, Vader only watched the boy's shallow breathing.  
It was as if he was gazing on his younger self.  
Blonde hair lay matted on the pillow, and the blank, unblinking eyes were an eerily familiar shade of blue. His hands shook, and Vader forced himself to take in the boy's attire.  
He was dressed as a Tatooinian slave.  
Familiar patterns were painted onto the fabric, stained now by the boy's time alone. But still unmistakeable. Still visibly the same ones his mother had once helped him paint onto his own clothes.  
Perhaps the original articles, perhaps a recreation.  
He stepped closer to the boy, the Force itself trembling with the strength of his shock. Had it not been enough? Had owning Anakin Skywalker, now Darth Vader, a Dark Lord of the Sith and a slave not been enough? He had had to find himself another, to somehow recreate the child he'd first met?  
"Anakin?" he asked slowly, his own name feeling wrong on his tongue as he applied it to the child. He was Anakin. He had lived this hell, he had come through it, jumping from one ring to another. Why did another have to follow him? Who was the boy, and what had he done to glean Palpatine's attention?  
But the boy, his replacement, didn't answer. His gaze didn't waver from where it rested in a corner of the room.  
Vader had always known there were replacements for him. Always Inquisitors, and admirals eager to take control. Redundancy had been Palpatine's primary source of motivation for him. If he did not work hard enough, he would simply be put to death and replaced.  
But he hadn't realized that there were needs he was no longer fulfilling for Palpatine. Had this boy been raised to adore the Sith, as Anakin- no, as he, the Anakin standing over the child, had been taught to? What life had he lived before he had been abandoned?  
Vader struggled to come back from the bad memories, to see the gaunt child properly.  
It had been a week now, since Palpatine's demise.  
"Fetch him water, and summon a meddroid," he ordered, his gaze quickly falling back to the boy.  
Perhaps, he thought, his hand straying to his lightsaber, it would be kinder to kill him. To sever him from his shame and filth, and release him to the Force.  
It felt wrong.  
No matter how many times Vader had wished to die, he would not have wished it to come from a stranger, standing over him in a moment of weakness.  
Slowly, he moved his hand from the saber again, his gaze still locked on the child.  
"Anakin, can you hear me?" he asked again. The boy must have been known as Anakin, must have been a replacement for the boy he'd been. And it was easier to call him that, and remember himself as a slave, rather than merely staring at the broken child now.  
But the child didn't move.  
Vader exhaled slowly. It was easier this way, he tried to assure himself. If the boy wasn't answering, he would not have to attempt to comfort.  
Was Little Anakin like he had been? A mess of fear and anger? Still longing for someone's protection and reassurance, perhaps even with a family to return to?  
For a heart shattering moment, Vader dreamed of healing the boy, and leading him back to a mother who would take his shoulders firmly in her hands, rake his body with her anxious gaze, and then draw him close in protection. A mother like Shmi.  
The deception could not have gone that far. It was a broken miracle that Palpatine had found a child who resembled him, it was impossible that the boy's mother would look as familiar.  
"And… do you have the Force?" he whispered to the child.  
In a galaxy of infinite possibilities, it was likely the boy had some scrap of power, to fully emulate the child he was replacing.  
Shutting out the horror of the broken scene, he closed his eyes, reaching out in the Force, in all its darkened glory.  
The boy shone like a dark star. A powerful, aching, dark glow that threatened to burn Vader, even as the boy on the bed barely shivered. In awe, he reached out, brushing his presence against the boy's pained existence. A pain shot through his mind, and for a heartbeat, he took the boy's place, gazing up at the familiar room as Palpatine entered, his hood withdrawn, aged face and yellow eyes on display to the child's galaxy.  
He stumbled back, withdrawing from the boy's mind, his gaze instinctively jerking to the empty doorway, before falling back to the boy as he took an unsteady gasp and twitched, his eyes still unseeing.  
In the aftermath of Mustafar, Palpatine had attempted more than once to pleasure himself with what remained of his slave's body. Vader had recognized at the time that he had lost value to Palpatine in the lava, but he had merely taken his permission to go back to his cell with gratitude, and tried to forget.  
Now, with the results of that choice laying before him, he allowed himself another cycle of his breathing apparatus before reaching out in the Force. Closing his eyes, he reached again for his lightsaber, slowly starting to siphon off the boy's paralyzed fear.  
A quick slice, and the binders fell away from the child's wrists, only the vaguest start of fear echoing through the Force from the boy's broken mind.  
Tracing the echoes back to a fractured, tiny being with in the dark star, Vader slowly brushed the boy's mind again, this time cautious to avoid another flashback.  
"Your name is Anakin, is it not?" he asked again, both aloud, and into the boy's soul.  
Still, there was no answer.  
The boy was starved, dehydrated, abused, and in shock. Vader hardly expected a response, but he had held a foolish hope that he would receive one nonetheless.  
"I will move you, now," he said finally. Opening his eyes, he gazed again on the child's still body, before sliding his arms under the child's limp form, and cautiously lifting him. He expected a shout of alarm, a scream of terror that would rend the Force around them, but the boy hardly gave a waver of broken acceptance.  
Gently, he moved the child to a clean patch of bed, resting the boy's head safely on a folded-back edge of the snowy blankets.  
"Help is coming, little one."  
Still, the boy offered no response. His silent flickers of emotion had ceased with Vader's physical withdrawal, and the Force showed him no more than his eyes, so he slowly withdrew from it.  
He felt powerless. He, Darth Vader, now the ruler of the entire galaxy, felt helpless as he gazed on the boy.  
He should have tried harder, he berated himself. Perhaps if he had done more than merely submit, his master wouldn't have taken another slave for himself. He should have done something, anything to keep Palpatine from lusting after his younger self, anything to keep him from finding a twisted way to fulfill those whims.  
He shook the thoughts off, reaching again for the slow pulse of the youngling's life force, assuring himself again that the child was alive, before withdrawing, allowing him privacy.  
And then, he stood alone in the darkened, empty room. It ached with a familiarity he couldn't see, the once-comforting space eerie, hollow despite its resident.  
The door opened again, at last, and the contractor ushered in a meddroid. It moved immediately to the child, the door shutting behind it.  
The droid grasped the boy, rolling him onto his back for examination, an array of medical tools suddenly erupting from its hand.  
The boy didn't even flicker at the motion, but Vader wished nonetheless that the droid had been gentler. He still remembered the grip on his shoulders when he had been a child on Tatooine, a sudden grab when he had misbehaved. Even with his comparatively kind Master, it had always been an unpleasant surprise.  
"Elevate him," the droid ordered, and Vader leapt into motion, eager to have direction.  
He slid his arm under the boy's shoulders, and lifted him into a sitting position, watching as the droid prepared a bottle of water. As it capped the bottle, Vader felt the boy tremble violently against his side, and reached out in the Force to caress his frightened mind. It is only water, he reassured, though he was certain that the boy was not hearing the words. You are safe, now.  
He watched as the droid inserted the bottle between the boy's slack lips, carefully compressing it just enough to let out a scant few drops of water.  
At the promise of water, the slave licked feverishly at his lips, catching the drops, and swallowing with difficulty. Finally, his eyes properly closed, his head resting on Vader's shoulder as he awaited another sip.  
The droid, however, withdrew, and began prepping a needle.   
The motion irked Vader. A moment before, the boy had finally started responding! His need for water was greater than the trauma and apathy he'd sunk into. Why would the droid remove an effective stimulus?  
The droid reached for the boy, grasping his arm in a clawed hand. In silence, the droid slid the needle into the boy's wrist, and Vader noted with relief that the child didn't flinch, or even seem aware of the motion.  
"He requires ongoing medical attention," the droid said, and Vader finally looked up, taking in the droid. An older unit, likely one that had been nearby, and not the best pick for the job. But a 2-1B was a sturdy affair, and Vader had long appreciated their straightforward nature, without the overflow of bedside manner that had been programmed into some more recent models.  
"I will assist in transporting him." Vader said flatly.  
The child was shivering again, and a drawer across the room flew open to reveal blankets, right where Anakin had once stored them.  
"Is he stable?"  
Vader was struggling to ignore the movement. He wasn't sure if it had been himself or the boy who had instinctively gone for the blankets, and he didn't enjoy the sensation of the uncertainty. Nor was he interested in the droid questioning it.  
"Provided that you don't jostle him," the droid said. It was proffering the bottle to the youngling again, and Vader gently leaned the slave into the motion.  
The boy's eyes cracked open, and he strained at Vader with the weakness of a newborn animal as he tried to reach the bottle.  
Vader released the child's wrist, and he nearly jerked free of the IV as he scrabbled uselessly at the bottle, desperately drinking for a moment, before the droid withdrew it again. Immediately, the boy gasped, some water trickling over his chin as his hand fell back to his knees.  
Tucking the bottle back away, the droid walked over to the open drawer, and withdrew a familiar blanket. For a second, Vader's heart leapt into his throat. That was his mother's, given to him after her death-  
He whipped another blanket from the drawer, throwing it around the boy before the droid could protest. It was softer, he tried to rationalize, taking the blanket from the droid, and carefully tucking it around the boy as well. It wasn't that his mom's blanket was still important to him, and he didn't want it damaged.  
The child let out a little whimper, and leaned towards Vader.  
Only leaning towards something stable, Vader told himself. But, nonetheless, he caught the boy, leaning him safely to one side of his control panel. He'd just take the boy to the waiting ambulance, he told himself. Carefully, he manoeuvered the boy's arms over his shoulders, and lifted him from the bed.  
As he lowered the boy into the ambulance, he wasn't sure if he imagined a brief flicker of the boy probing his presence.


	2. The Hospital

The child raised in violence woke with violence. For some time, he had been unconscious, small and helpless in his silence, easy enough to lift and move for treatment. Medics had easily become attached to the little boy, with his uneven blonde hair, slowly combed out by droids, and a couple of bored nurses. Although Vader had ordered that he be treated in absolute secrecy, a medic with small children of their own had procured him a little set of dark blue pyjamas, and tucked a soft toy under his arm.  
The soft toy, Vader was informed, had been the first thing to go upon the child’s rousing.  
Presumably shortly followed by his shirt, Vader reflected wryly. Beyond the thick pane of transparisteel, the boy was wreaking telekinetic havoc on his little room. He had torn his shirt off, and thrown it after his toy, and his distress wailed through the Force. The medics, despite that none of them were particularly powerful in the Force, had all been unnerved by the fury and terror of the little boy and had been more than willing to let Vader see him alone.  
It was just as well.  
He reached out to the child, not yet opening the door to allow the boy to focus his anger on a singular figure. As he had sensed at the boy’s bedside in the Temple, his presence was a terrible, twisted thing. It seemed inverted, all directed inwards, all this anger now seeming to tear through the very fabric of his being, torturous and unnatural in a way that even Vader’s anger was not.  
If he had been a dark star then, he was now a desperate supernova, trying to escape from himself, from the fear that he felt, and the cruelty he had been raised on.  
At Vader’s touch, he exploded again, his being of agony thrashing against his restraints, against his room. His little body was seated on the medical bed, head tipped back, screaming, his hands desperately grasping at everything he could reach, trying to remove them.   
In it all was a great pain, a heartbroken sense of pleading for freedom he had never known. He was confused, removed from his cell, and it was probable that he had sensed his master’s death.  
Child, Vader asked, surrounding the furthest reaches of the boy’s struggle with his presence. It was not the same as his master’s, his own darkness had always been warmer than the elder Sith’s ice cold deathliness, but it would be more familiar to the boy than the vibrant living souls that surrounded him.  
As if a curtain had fallen over a violent performance, the boy’s motions slowed. He ceased trying desperately to remove his flannel pyjama bottoms, and his hands settled at his sides as he turned inwards again. His presence folded back in on itself, reminiscent of graceful folding solar sails, or a durasheet map well folded, healing the slashes in itself to reveal that they had not been gashes at all, only half-open folds. Now he hung, silent in the void, a tiny form once again, belying the need for Vader’s cavernous protection a moment ago.  
You are not alone, Vader told him, but the boy gave no sign of having heard or understood. His presence remained still, and his shoulders slumped, exhaustion overtaking his fury and fear, now that unfamiliarity had been removed.  
He did not move as the door opened, and Vader stepped in, but as Vader approached the bed, the boy lifted his head. His eyes were closed, and with the movement, he drew his hands to his lap, but he spoke.  
“Anakin?”  
It had been such a long time since he had last heard his own name, yet he nearly answered, the plaintive worry reminding him of a time when he had been gentler, when he would have been better prepared to reassure a child.  
“Am I right in thinking that to be your name?” he inquired, keeping his voice level.  
The boy was strange. He had seen dark before, and he had seen light, but this child was other to those concepts. His presence and being was not describable in such broad strokes, but seemed to be an unrefined pool of repressed emotions.  
“Yes,” the child answered. His voice was small, and now he opened his eyes once again, and Vader could feel their blueness. As ever, his ruined eyes offered only the meaningless shades of red, but he could feel the colour, indescribable by the means of Force-users.  
“You are afraid.”  
“Yes,” Anakin whispered. He slowly pushed himself to his knees, creeping forwards uncertainly. “Where’s Master? Where am I? There were people…”  
Remembering his mother’s actions when he had been the age the child was now, he slowly sat down on the edge of the bed, making himself available to lean on if the boy wished to.  
“Medics,” he explained. “You required medical attention. What do you remember?”  
“Of my room?” the boy asked anxiously. He looked so small and unthreatening once again, and now that he was calm, he seemed chilled without his shirt. “Master… Master visited me. He brought me a treat from Naboo, and some…” he bit his lip, and looked away, “He wanted… he made me…”  
“He used you,” Vader suggested. He knew what the boy was implying, the way his master would become physical, the horrible twisted parody of the affectionate touch he had used to give him when he was training at the Temple, no longer a supporting hand on the shoulder, but now probing, invasive and unrelenting. It was frightening enough for himself, even used as he was to medical procedures, when his body would be fully opened to the whims and interests of medics.  
The boy nodded, gesturing to his body, indicating everywhere that Palpatine would have touched, every place that his slender body was bruised by the master’s death-like clawed grip.  
“And then?”  
“He left,” Anakin whispered, “Said he’d be back to spend the night.”  
He looked so small, and Vader summoned his shirt back to his hand, carefully laying it over the child’s shoulders, before proffering the toy as well.  
“He didn’t come.” Wide eyes met Vader’s as the boy uncertainly accepted the toy, holding it delicately, apparently unsure of what to do with it. “I felt him die.”  
His gaze fell to his bare feet, and Vader’s gaze instinctively followed, watching as the boy wiggled his toes uncertainly, seeming to be trying to distract himself.  
“He didn’t come for my bath,” he mumbled. “And the droids never came to take me to the ‘fresher. I tried to hold it!” he cried out, “I really, really did, but he was gone so long! He was gone so long, and I had to go, and I was so cold, and… and…”  
Vader opened his mouth to reassure the boy, but suddenly his composure was gone, his presence exploded outwards once again.  
“And there are other people! I’ve never ever seen other people! I don’t like it, I wanna go home!”  
“Hush,” Vader said gently. He offered his hands to the child, inviting him to initiate contact if he wished, but not foisting it upon him. “Hush, youngling. If you will allow them to stabilize you, you may return to my castle, where we will be the only living souls.”  
“They touch me,” the boy implored, coming closer to Vader, his presence tentatively refolding, “I don’t like it…”  
Vader looked down at him in concern, watching as the boy curled against his arm. “Do they touch you as Sidious did?”  
“Not exactly,” Anakin said, finally folding the toy to his chest, his gaze falling to its fluffy head. “But I don’t wanna be touched.”  
“You will have to permit it, child,” Vader told him. “When they are finished, it will be for you to say who will touch you, but you require medical attention.”  
“I want my mom,” the boy whispered, and now he clung to his toy as if he had remembered what it was to own toys, as if a life before Palpatine was returning.  
“Where is your mother?” Vader asked, hesitating before continuing bluntly, “Do you remember a time before you were Anakin?”  
Anakin looked up at him with enormous, frightened eyes. Then he shook his head slowly, and Vader stiffened as he wrapped himself around his arm. “I was born to be his,” he whispered. “I was born to be Anakin.”  
Thousands of questions swarmed Vader’s brain, desperate to make their way to the forefront and be asked. Did that mean there was no mother, could it perhaps mean that this boy was a clone of himself, or did it only mean that the boy had been stolen so young that he had no memory of her?  
“Will you allow the medics to treat you?” he asked the boy, carefully extracting his arm from the boy’s grasp, and unbuttoning the pyjama shirt, holding it out for the boy to put his arms into and buttoning it up over florid bruises and myriad tiny scars.  
“You… you promise you’ll come get me, when they’re done?” the boy asked. Vader met his gaze, his hopeful eyes darkened by a cruel past, he couldn’t help but think that this must have been how he had looked at Qui-Gon, a lifetime and a half ago. This child’s request was even more humble, not hopefully grandiose, but only pleading to have somewhere to look forwards to.  
“You have my word.” He stood, gestured to the boy to scramble aside, and pulled back the covers for him. “The medics may ask you to move, and let them see injuries. The sooner you obey, the sooner you will be able to leave.”  
The boy nodded, curling under the blankets as Vader tucked them up to his chin.  
“If their actions frighten you,” he continued, placing the soft toy against the boy’s chest, “Call for a second medic to watch over you. If you are truly frightened, you may have them summon me.”  
He covered the boy with a second blanket that had lain at the foot of his bed, remembering that he had been raised in heat, and in his master’s attempts to replicate himself, this boy likely had been as well.  
“I see why she loved you,” the boy said, folding his arms around his toy. He was gazing up at Vader with a quiet worshipfulness, and a tremor ran down Vader’s spine as he seemed to see past his lenses, and meet his long-forgotten eyes. “The pretty girl from Naboo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry this took so long to get out the door! I rewrote it at least four times, and I hope that I got a good version this time around.


End file.
